When Cultures Clash, Chinese-American Neuroses Create A Romance Writer

Once upon a time (in the fifties), a Chinese princess married an Indiana Hoosier. She was indeed the descendant of royalty, had played in Chang Kai Shek’s home, and was well aware of her full and rich heritage. He was an Indiana man taught staunch middle class values of hard work, nuclear family, and the value of a good education. In the sixties, they gave birth to a daughter. Actually, they added several daughters to their nuclear family, but I refer to myself–Daughter Number 2.

Few Americans can understand what birth order means to a Chinese child. All is done by numbers. Each child has responsibilities according to their rank and sex. And though each child is given a name–Unyielding Perseverance or Spring Jade–each child is known by their birth number as well.

But we were speaking of me–Daughter Number 2. At the moment of my birth, I was given two powerful and conflicting birthrights: to obey in silence (think porcelain doll) while simultaneously standing up for truth, goodness, and the American way. This created a huge conflict in my young mind. True, I could stand up in silence, but once standing, I wanted to move. And once speaking the truth, I had no interest in shutting up.

How, then, did I cope? Split Personality. I’m not joking here. Away from my mother, I learned to be American! An exclamation point was absolutely integral to that personality for everything I did was loud, dramatic, and over-the-top. But in front of my mother, I was very Chinese. I walked a step behind her and kept my eyes lowered at all times. My hands were often folded in front of me, and my mouth...well, I tried to keep it shut. I think I did an admirable job. My mother emphatically does not.

Not surprisingly, I learned to hate being Chinese, but also got rather tired of being American. Loud drama is all well and good, but sometimes I just did want to sit in silence. But that brought on all the other difficulties of being Chinese, pre-eminent of which was Guilt. I was guilty of not studying hard enough for my chemistry exam, though I doubt a zillion more study hours would have made any difference. I was guilty of thinking extremely nasty things of my mother. I was also guilty of lying to assign my various misdemeanors to a sibling.

Enter the most patient man on the planet–my husband–who’s biggest asset was that he is Caucasian and understood absolutely none of this. He was baffled by my rage at my parents and the way I despised wearing those sexy Chinese dresses. He was entertained by my American side because, frankly, that’s what I was: an entertainer perpetually on stage. During those moments, he simply sat back and watched the show. He held me when exhaustion set in, and he listened to what must have seemed like incomprehensible spinelessness when faced with my mother’s displeasure. And I really shouldn’t confess the competition my older sister and I had to have the first grandson–although, honestly, I think he enjoyed those months of trying to get pregnant.

In short, he loved me and gave me the space I needed to find peace between the warring halves of my soul. He is why I write romance and truly believe that love conquers all. Let me give you an example.

A few months ago, I turned to him in exasperation and demanded, “Tell me again why I love you?” He thought and thought, then finally answered, “Because I listen when you complain about your mother.” He didn’t say he understood, only that he listens. And after twenty-five years, I realize that sums it all up. He loves me.

At war or at peace, he has stood beside me. Why wouldn’t I believe that love conquers all? And why wouldn’t I want to share that with the world in my books?